


quelqu'un m'a dit que tu m'aimais

by carmiros



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, Sharing Clothes, Vague Mention of a First Time, and a bed!, gettin tipsy on wine and flirting in awful french, shitty "wingman" knight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:16:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmiros/pseuds/carmiros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric Bittle @omgcheckplease:<br/>"Shitty is talking in a terrible French accent and just slammed the door in my face. I'm at Jack's apartment. I don't understand?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	quelqu'un m'a dit que tu m'aimais

Bitty didn’t take French because of Jack-- he really didn’t.

Jack, the ex-teammate and friend who Bitty was undeniably in love with, only sparked Bitty’s interest in the language because he conveniently spoke it. Bitty most definitely did _not_ take the class because he wanted to know what Jack talked about with his parents over the phone or wanted to impress him by whipping out some fancy but, most likely, incorrect French. He didn’t work hard enough that he was able to _skip Samwell’s level two French course_ because of Jack.

At least that’s what Bitty is telling himself.

Jack proved to be a helpful tutor, however. He even invited Bitty up to Montreal one summer, where everyone talked so much Québécois that Bitty briefly forgot how to speak English. Even if Jack chirps his terrible accent, he’s done wonders for Bitty, and Bitty feels guilty for that, for making Jack feel like he always has to help Bitty with anything from checking to French.

Bitty isn’t surprised that Jack’s so quick to offer help when Bitty offhandedly mentions being worried about his spring final.

“Jack, you don’t have to,” Bitty says, phone pressed against his cheek as he rolls out dough.

He hears Jack shift and he briefly lets himself imagine Jack sitting on the couch, legs crossed and post-practice snack in his lap. His heart flutters.

“I want to, Bittle,” Jack replies, deep voice tinny over the line. “You can come up to Providence and we’ll study. I promise I don’t have anything going on.”

Bitty hesitates, saying slowly, “Are you sure? I don’t want to be a burden-”

“Bitty,” Jack interrupts in his _I’m your captain and I can tell you what to do_ voice. “I would like for you to visit.”

To be frank, Bitty nearly drops his phone into the dough. Jack’s never called him by his nickname before, only resorting to Bittle, but what really makes Bitty’s heart skip a million beats is the way Jack wants him to visit. It’s almost like he _misses_ him.

But Bitty is well aware of his habit of seeing things that aren’t there, especially when it involves Jack Laurent Zimmermann, so he casts the wishful thought aside. Instead, his cheeks steadily grow hot and he replies quietly, “I suppose I can make the drive.”

“Good,” Jack says, and Lord, Bitty can practically hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll see you Friday, okay?”

Bitty tries his hardest to not smile too wide. “Okay.”

That’s the signal for Jack to hang up, so Bitty’s met with silence seconds later. Bitty locks his phone, shoving it in his back pocket before hiding his face in his hands and letting out a small squeak.

Then Bitty’s phone vibrates and Bitty takes a deep breath as he fishes it out of his pocket.

Jack texted him an honest-to-God _smiley face_ , and Bitty’s laugh-screech makes one of the frogs stumble downstairs, brandishing a hockey stick.

* * *

 

When Bitty lets himself into Jack’s apartment in Providence, he expects Jack to be sitting on the couch. But he’s shocked to see the dining table replacing the couch, covered in a fancy white cloth. There’s a candle in the middle of the table, along with napkins and wine glasses.

Down the hall, Shitty is fixing the collar to Jack’s dress shirt, in black slacks and a waiter’s apron.

“Uhm,” Bitty says eloquently, hand still on the doorknob.

Jack looks up, eyes widening a fraction and Shitty whips around. A laugh bubbles out of Bitty’s mouth when he sees how Shitty’s mustache is obscenely curled at the ends. Jack’s smile grows shy and Bitty zeroes in on that.

Then Shitty is running forward, saying in the world’s worst French accent, “One sec, monsieur.”

“Wait, what’s going-” Bitty starts but Shitty shoves him out into the hallway, slamming the door in his face.

Bitty stands there for a moment, still trying to process what on _Earth_ is happening, before grabbing his phone and quickly tweeting about the whole ordeal.

The door suddenly opens and Jack is pushed into Bitty, who squeaks. Neither of them can do anything except stumble out of each other’s space, Bitty getting a quick hint of Jack’s cologne, as the door bangs shut. Again.

Bitty isn’t exactly able to say anything, since Jack is standing by his side, hair parted off to one side and slicked back. He’s in the same powder blue dress shirt and gray slacks that he wore to Lardo’s art show (Bitty just has a good memory, alright? It’s not like he fantasized about taking that all off of Jack. Not at all), pants tight around one specific area that makes Bitty briefly pray for God to forgive him.

Suddenly Jack says, “ _Tu dois parler en français_ , Eric.”

It doesn’t sink in for a moment, the way Jack pronounced Eric as “air-eek” still replaying in Bitty’s head.

Jack adds, “ _Tu comprends? C'est pour ton examen. Je veux t'aider._ ”

“Wait- I mean- _Je...je dois...parler en français?_ ” Bitty replies, the gears in his mind turning.

Jack nods, saying, “ _Ouais._ ”

“Oh, _mon dieu,_ ” Bitty manages and places his hand over his heart, trying to make it stop hammering against his chest so hard he might have a bruise.

Bitty glances down at his phone, which is vibrating every five seconds with Twitter notifications, when Shitty finally opens the door. Music quietly streams out of the apartment and Bitty realizes that it’s Frank Sinatra.

“Hon, hon, hon,” Shitty says, still in his disastrous accent, “Welcome to whatever the hell this restaurant is called. Do you have a reservation? Hon, hon, hon.”

Jack looks like he’s trying to bite back his laughter as he answers, “ _Pour deux, s’il vous plait._ ”

That’s the moment everything clicks together for Bitty, and the breath gets knocked out of his chest. Jack’s having Bitty do _a fucking role play_.

Bitty struggles to breathe. He’s mediocre at best with French, which has been Jack’s latest source for chirping. But Jack still went through all the trouble of getting this all together, even roping Shitty into what was going to be a simple study session.

His knee is shaking as he scoots his chair in, Shitty placing paper menus in front of him and Jack. Bitty unfolds the menu, just to see three words written in Shitty’s chicken scratch: _Fettuccini alfredo, croissants, wine_.

“Shitty,” Bitty laughs weakly. “This is-”

Jack coughs, arching an eyebrow and Bitty corrects himself.

“ _C’est rigolo,_ Shitty. _Tu es-_ uhm, _content...maintenant,_ Jack?”

“ _Ouais,_ ” is all Jack replies, grinning and Bitty assumes that he’s enjoying the homemade quality of the menu.

Shitty strides back over to the table, pouring white wine into Bitty’s glass. Bitty recognizes the bottle and looks over at Jack in surprise.

“Pinot grigio?” he asks.

Jack nods and says softly, “ _Ouais. Ton préféré?_ ”

Bitty’s stomach drops right as his cheeks start to heat up. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, so he takes a long drink of wine and is speaking into the glass when he whispers, “ _Merci._ ”

Thankfully, Jack must have heard because he smiles in Bitty’s direction. Or he could totally still be trying not to laugh at Shitty, who is scribbling both of their orders onto his palm; he’s definitely laughing at Shitty.

When Shitty starts towards the kitchen, Jack suddenly kneels down in front of the cobblestone fireplace. Bitty’s eyes naturally follow the movement, drawn to the way Jack’s ass is threatening to break free of those damn dress pants.

What can he say? He appreciates art when he sees it.

Bitty suddenly remembers that there’s another person in the room and looks away quickly, meeting Shitty’s gaze. Shitty had apparently been watching the whole time because he has the widest grin on his face, and when Bitty turns impossibly redder he winks.

Jack settles back in his seat and Bitty attempts to chirp, “I didn’t think- uhm, _je… je pense que restaurants n’a pas la… fireplaces?_ ”

A smirk grows across Jack’s face and he replies, “ _Tu pensais que restaurants n’ont pas des cheminées?_ ”

“ _Arrête,_ ” Bitty huffs, crossing his arms.

Jack just laughs, taking a sip of wine and says, “ _Tu te débrouilles bien,_ Bittle. _Vraiment_.”

Bitty feels his cheeks grow warm and he stammers, “ _M-Merci. Tu fais bien aussi._ ”

“ _J'parle québécois depuis vingt-six ans,_ ” Jack chirps, smirk growing wider and more smug. Bitty wants to kiss that look right off his face, but that’s the wine talking.

It’s still the wine talking when Bitty says, “ _Je m’en fou,_ ”

He automatically starts laughing when Jack’s head snaps up and he blurts out, “Er- Bittle!”

“ _Je m’en fou!_ ” Bitty giggles, and Jack doesn’t even reply, shoulders shaking with laughter and eyes bright in a way Bitty doesn’t think he’s ever seen in a human being.

They’re both still laughing-- quite childishly, Bitty has to admit-- when Shitty brings a basket of croissants. Bitty almost asks if he made them himself, feeling a lump in his throat from the overwhelming sense of pride, but Shitty cuts him off.

“They’re Pillsbury. Sorry, Bits- fuck, I mean, monsieur.”

Bitty tries not to look too disappointed and quietly takes a croissant, remembering to say “ _Merci._ ”

The two of them work their way through the croissants and wine, and eventually Bitty’s head is buzzing. Jack is the most drunk Bitty has ever seen him, cheeks rosy and eyelids drooping.

When Shitty brings over their dinner, Jack smiles crookedly and slurs, “You’re _incroyable_ , Shits. _Merci_ very much, _pour_ everything.”

Shitty shakes his head at him while Bitty’s consumed in drunken giggles, for the millionth time in the past thirty minutes, and sighs, “I regret buying that fucking wine.”

“ _Non,_ ” Bitty laughs, “ _Pas possible!_ ”

“Bitty’s right. _Tu...tu nous aimes_. You say that _tout le temps_.” Jack adds, accent thick and words sticking together like molasses.

Shitty just looks at the two of them, Bitty so drunk that he’s half-asleep and Jack hardly understandable, and just shakes his head before walking off, muttering under his breath.

Jack honestly giggles as Shitty leaves, looking back over at Bitty. His eyes are still bright, cheeks quickly turning redder and Bitty wants to reach across the table, kiss him senseless, even though Shitty is right across the room.

“ _Je suis trop saoul_ ,” Bitty sighs and Jack giggles again, their knees pressing together from under the table. The contact feels electric, practically jolting Bitty awake again.

“ _Ton français est extraordinaire,_ Bitty.” Jack slurs, leaning his cheek against his palm and elbow resting on the table. Bitty doesn’t have the heart to tell him that elbows aren’t allowed on the table. “ _J’l’aime, chouchou, j’l’aime. Ah, mon dieu._ ”

Bitty elegantly snorts into his wine, replying, “ _J-je t’aime._ ”

Jack blinks slowly, registering what Bitty just said and Bitty backtracks, stammering, “ _Non, attends. Je vais dire que ton français est bien, aussi._ ”

Instead of questioning it any further, Jack just hums and watches Bitty with a small smile. Bitty looks down at his plate, twirling the pasta with his fork and taking a bite before he says anything else regretful.

Bitty feels Jack’s eyes still on him, their knees still pressed together and Bitty wants to move away, save himself from getting too wrapped up in the moment, but he can’t. It’s definitely the wine getting to him, making him more bold and brave than usual.

He lets out a small sigh of relief when Jack starts eating too.

Shitty eventually swoops in, carting the two of them off to bed with claims of, “You fuckers are drunk as hell,” which Bitty doesn’t necessarily disagree with.

Jack tugs Bitty into his bed and Bitty follows without a second thought, faceplanting onto the blankets. He hears Jack’s quiet laughter and peeks over to see Jack sliding off his pants, chest already bare.

“Do you need pajamas?” Jack whispers, taking Bitty’s attention away from the built abs that are less than _a foot away from him_.

“If you don’t mind,” Bitty answers and kicks off his clothes, discarding them somewhere that’s at least off the bed.

Jack tosses him a shirt that smells old, somewhat metallic from being buried in a dresser for, most likely, two years. Yet underneath all of that, there’s a familiar, sharp scent combined with lavender laundry detergent that’s undeniably Jack.

As he slides the shirt over his head, Bitty says softly, “You use my laundry detergent.”

The bed dips, Jack slipping under the blankets, only in his socks and underwear. Bitty should be used to it, after being in the same locker room and house with him for two years, but it’s so undeniably intimate that he feels his lungs constrict.

They tighten when Jack scoots close and throws an arm around Bitty’s waist. Jack is radiating warmth, so Bitty presses himself along the line of Jack’s body, all hard planes and firm muscle. He tries not to sigh dreamily, especially when Jack hooks his calf around Bitty’s and buries his face in Bitty’s hair.

Bitty presses his ear against Jack’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. It’s rhythmic, easy-paced and soothing.

He feels his eyes start to droop, the beat of Jack’s heart lulling him to sleep. The last thing Bitty hears, whether it be real or not, is a quiet “ _Je t’aime aussi._ ”

* * *

 

Bitty wakes up alone. Jack’s shirt is uncomfortably twisted around his chest and the blankets are tucked around him. The smell of Jack’s body soap, combined with sweat and a hint of floral-scented Febreeze, is all around Bitty, practically choking him.

He shifts onto his side, his nose pressed against Jack’s pillow, loosening the shirt’s grip on him. Bitty allows himself a moment of taking it all in, since this will definitely be the one and only time he’s able to.

Then there’s the sound of clanging coming from down the hall and Bitty huffs, tearing himself away to sit up, the harsh sunlight streaming through the curtains. His head automatically starts to throb and Bitty realizes that he is extremely, undeniably hungover.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, slowly getting to his feet and making his way down the hall.

In the kitchen, Jack is at the stove in only a white t-shirt and boxers. The boxers look ready to snap, Jack’s thick thighs stretching them out and Bitty could still be drunk, but he wants to kiss those muscles more than he wants to graduate from Samwell.

Shitty’s sitting at the marble-top breakfast bar, an obscenely thick law book in front of him. Yet he seems to be disregarding it, since he’s in the middle of saying, “Just do what feels right, man.”

Bitty takes a step back, ready to come back later because no one says that during a casual conversation, but his foot meets a creaky board on the wooden floor and Jack’s head snaps up. Shitty stutters to a stop, eyes wide for a fraction of a second.

“Good afternoon, Bittle,” Jack says casually, despite the wide-eyed vulnerability that makes Bitty stop for a moment.

“You slept the day away, Bits.” Shitty adds and Bitty glances over at the clock on the microwave, which says that it’s only 9:30.

Bitty throws both of them a glare and Jack smiles, hair sticking up in awkward places and Bitty relaxes.

He steps over to the stove and peers into the pot that Jack’s stirring. He asks, “Jack, are you making breakfast?”

Jack bumps their hips together and chirps, “No, Bittle, I just wanted to randomly make gravy.”

Bitty gives him an even nastier glare, huffing, before bending down to look into the oven. Inside, there’s a pan of golden brown biscuits cooking. He snaps back up to look a flustered Jack in the eye, saying, “Jack Laurent! Are you making biscuits and gravy?”

“Yep,” Jack answers nonchalantly, and turns his attention back to the gravy. Bitty watches him for another moment, squinting, before walking over to join Shitty at the breakfast bar.

Shitty briefly knocks their knees together, looking up from his book to wiggle his eyebrows. “Did my favorite pair of lovebirds hook up or nah?”

Jack yells, “Shitty!” right as Bitty squawks, face heating up so quickly he could have probably fried an egg on it. Shitty just cackles, laughing even harder when Bitty swats him in the shoulder.

Bitty and Jack’s eyes briefly meet, Jack grinning despite his blush as he gets out an oven mitt for the biscuits. Bitty thinks for a split moment that maybe he isn’t seeing things after all, but he pushes it away.

Even though Jack isn’t straight-- which Bitty knows for sure now, after a long conversation over the summer before his senior year-- he wouldn’t like Bitty that way. Even if they visit each other constantly, texting as much as possible. Or even if Bitty met Jack’s family up in Montreal and Jack stays in touch with Bitty’s mama. That can’t mean that Jack feels the same way; it just _can’t_.

But Bitty’s still sitting here, in Jack’s old t-shirt and now knowing what it’s like to share a bed with him. He’s still hungover from a night of sharing wine and dinner with Jack, who went through all the trouble of getting it ready just so Bitty could be ready for his final. Jack, who pressed their knees together from under the table and told Bitty he loved his French.

So what does all of that mean?

Jack hands him a plate of biscuits smothered in gravy before hopping onto the counter, crossing his legs and placing his own plate in his lap. Bitty watches him, chewing on his lip and tapping his fork against the marble.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, Bits?” Shitty asks.

Bitty looks over, making up his mind. “Nothing.”

* * *

 

He waits until Shitty leaves. When Jack closes the door, Bitty sits himself on the couch. He tries not to sound too nervous as he asks, “Well, do you have any plans for today?”

Jack shakes his head as he plops down next to Bitty, drawing his knees up and tucking his toes underneath Bitty’s thighs. It’s something the both of them have done a million times over the years, but now it feels more weighted than usual.

“I guess…” Bitty starts, tremors already starting to run down his spine. “I guess I can tell you something, then.”

Jack’s eyes flicker down to Bitty’s shaking hands before saying slowly, “And what’s that?”

Bitty tries to control his breathing and not to get a lump in his throat. His mind races with the thoughts of what could happen if he’s really imagining things that aren’t there. Jack could kick him out, could push him away and never talk to him again. He could let him down easy but never act the way he is now, and Bitty isn’t sure which one breaks his heart more.

Jack leans forward, eyebrows knit together and he says, “Bitty?”

That makes Bitty take a deep breath, screw his eyes shut so he can’t see Jack’s face as he says, “Don’t hate me for this, but… but, I like you. In a romantic way; like, I want to date you. I have since sophomore year but, well, I thought you were straight and even after you told me you weren’t, I still thought you wouldn’t like me. I mean, who would, right? So I tried to get over it but I-- I _can’t_ and I’m _sorry_ -”

Jack cuts him off, saying sternly, “Bitty.”

“Yes?” Bitty chokes out, taking a deep, shuddering breath and he squeezes his eyes shut even more to hold back the tears.

Then Jack suddenly wraps his hands around Bitty’s wrists so gently that Bitty opens his eyes a fraction of an inch and the breath gets knocked out of him.

Jack is watching him with a look of downright _adoration_ , eyes soft instead of the usual harsh, icy blue.

“I bought you an oven,” he says softly, shakily. “I visit Samwell whenever I can. You’re the first person who came to my parents’ house in Montreal and you met my family over Thanksgiving. I gave you one of my jerseys- _crisse,_ Bitty, I made Shitty be a fake waiter. O-Of course I like you.”

Bitty shakes his head wildly, eyesight blurring and he throws himself forward, wrapping his arms around Jack’s huge shoulders. Jack hugs him back, warm and safe and Bitty hides his face in the crook of Jack’s neck, just like he’s always dreamed of.

He hears Jack laughing weakly, almost manic, and tightens his grip around him. Bitty can feel how erratically Jack’s heart is beating, and knows for certain that his heart is doing the same.

They pull away at the same time and Jack swoops down to kiss Bitty’s forehead. Bitty can’t breathe as Jack’s lips gently press against each of his eyelids, following the slope of Bitty’s nose to kiss the tip, then the apples of his cheeks.

When Jack kisses the side of Bitty’s mouth, he manages shakily, “ _Jack,_ ” and he smiles when he feels Jack shiver. Bitty leans forward, kissing Jack softly. Their noses brush, morning breath still sour but Bitty doesn’t mind, since Jack is tilting his head to the side to change the angle.

Bitty tangles their fingers together, teeth running over Jack’s bottom lip before he makes himself pull away. He watches Jack slowly open his eyes, looking dazed, and he laughs. He surprises himself at how hoarse his voice is.

Jack rubs their noses together, leaning close again and saying quietly, “I love you.”

“Oh, lord,” Bitty chokes out, taking in how Jack grins. “What am I gonna do with you, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack shrugs. “Kiss me again? I have time.”

Bitty rolls his eyes but leans in again, making sure to say “I love you too,” before kissing him.

* * *

 

It takes forever for Bitty to leave for Samwell because Jack’s hands are everywhere, reeling him back in every time he says he has to go. It’s as if he knows Bitty will never say no to kissing Jack Zimmermann, like any other rational human being.

Then Jack’s hands curl under Bitty’s thighs as they’re pressed against the fridge, lifting him up and carrying him down the hall. Bitty lets out a soft sigh and Jack takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in, tracing the seam of Bitty’s mouth in a way that makes him dig his fingers into Jack’s hair.

As soon as they’re in bed, Bitty hooks a leg around Jack and flips the both of them over. Jack lets out a small, surprised yelp and Bitty spreads his hands out across Jack’s chest.

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice rough.

Jack nods his head frantically, and Bitty smiles.

“Good,” is the only warning he gives before ducking down, mouthing at Jack’s chest through cotton. His hands dip underneath the shirt, fingers lightly moving against Jack’s sides. A groan gets knocked out of Jack’s lungs, impossibly deep and resonating through Bitty’s bones.

Jack’s hand spreads across the expanse of Bitty’s back, fingers touching his shoulder blades, and Bitty has to make himself go slow as he noses his way down, further and further.

* * *

 

Bitty does eventually leave.

Three hours later.

**Author's Note:**

> i have jack speaking joual, a subcategory of Québécois French. however, i am only a simple american who is in level 3 french so i could have got it wrong.  
> edit: thank you DaZeli for helping me make it more authentically Québécois!! you're a real peach!! 
> 
> also fun fact bitty's wearing a dress and tights in this fic. you're welcome.


End file.
